Stolkholm Syndrome
by 7LetterDirt
Summary: Her green eyed boy is dead. Her family, her friends, they're gone too. She's the last of the Order, and she's all yours. HGDM, M for implied noncon, drinking and implied eating disorders. Read at your own risk.
1. Chapter 1

"**STOLKHOLM SYNDROME"**

**DISCLAIMER: **

**I DONT OWN IT. I NEVER WILL. SHUT UP.**

**WARNINGS: THERES A REASON ITS RATED "R". DRINKING, BULIMIA AND SOME NON-CON THATS NON-GRAPHIC AT THE END. **

"Its not something you can rush", he says to you, as he wipes out a heavy looking glass with a dirty rag. His beard is scraggly, overgrown. His eyes are yellow, the irises black. His skin is grey. His hands are stubby and fat and its just so captivating how the veins are so thick under his skin.

The air is thick and cold, crisp in the saddest sun England had ever seen. Smoke is still in the air, years later, and the clouds never seemed to part. The grass is sickly and the trees are rotting from the inside out. Too many drizzles. Too much lethargy. Too much.

He smiles tiredly and puts the glass up on a shelf on the other side of the bar. He reaches into the sink and pulls out another glass. His shirt is grubby and pale, his slacks stained and worn looking.

"These things take time. It just doesn't happen all at once.", he continues, and its striking just how gently intelligent he is. The lights of the bar flicker off in the morning light.

0...0...0

At first, it was white. Things were a perfect white, just like her teeth. It was so plain and simple, the white. So full of energy, so ready, so vibrant. You wonder how long it took to steal the life from that white. How long?

And when did it start fading?You pause and wait for the answer to fall from the sky and into your lap.

Now you remember.

She fell in love. Oh her love, beautiful, was it not?

Oh you laugh now, but you remember. So faintly you remember how she fell in love.

With another man.

She ruffled his black hair, kissed the eyelids that covered green eyes. Green eyes meant for another woman, not her. And oh it pained you so, you remember, to see her so pained. She knew it, knew he loved someone else. She was crushed, so crushed, and inadvertantly, so were you.

You counted every eyelash on her lids, counted every faint freckle, every trip to the loo when she emerged with red, blotchy skin and sniffles. Every trip to the library that found little rain drops littering the pages of her books like so many fallen leaves. Every time you sat in your shared common room and listened as she poured her stomach out to the toilet, wishing she were pouring her heart out to you.

Could you have stopped her?

Probably.

Did you?

No.

Because after she was done, you did the same thing.

It was then she turned a pale yellowish white, so sick. So sick.

She was so white, sick, but white, as compared to the jet black mark gracing your arm. You think with a smile of her tracing the contours of your scar, and immediately note this for later. A good idea, that one.

She was seventeen and knew nothing of the world. You were seventeen and knew everything about her. And sometimes you wished, wished deep down, to save her.

Spy? You? Never.

You think fondly of her brown eyes and your eyes sparkle. You wouldn't spy. What a foolish endeavor. You chuckle.

"You're a man in love.", says the barman, smiling. "But these things take time young man." He serves you another drink and you tiredly reach over and bring it your lips. Its foaming white at the top.

She fell in love with someone else. Then your smiles and sparkles drop. She fell in love with someone else. You take a deep drink, hoping to swallow your thoughts.

You do and they burn in your stomach, sizzling with every other acidic thought you ever forced yourself to keep burried underneath your food and drink.

Ah, but that did end soon, didnt it?

She was so sick when it did, so sick, you think to yourself. So thin, so pale. So pale she wasn't even white anymore. She was more of a fading color. Transparent- like a wet sheet waving in the breeze.

The sun peeked shyly through the grimy windows and you think of her nose, peppered with freckles. You wish you had freckles too, just so you didnt so much like a slab of marble. Or pure concrete.

You are so much more than just a rock.

0...0...0

He died in a flash of green and you were left with what he had refused to hold close. Oh yes, what he had refused. He knew, and still pushed her to become transparent. She always thought she was to blame. She wasn't thin enough, she wasnt pretty enough. She wasnt smart enough, she just wasn't enough. The truth was, and you knew it too, she was everything. She was everything, and that green-eyed monstrosity wanted only half of her.

Maybe, you sometimes think to yourself, that what she was trying to do was rid herself of her insides so she could be just the shell of a person he wanted. You wanted her whole, so you ridded yourself of your insides as well. You thought that if she was half, you could be half with her, and together you'd make one.

But dear boy, you realized that a half can never be made whole, even by another half. So you stopped yourself on the rim of the sink and skittered back to the shower and turned it on, stepped inside, and swallowed more of what made you so fat in the first place.

And it wasnt water.

0...0...0

He died in a flash of green and you are now left with his left-overs.

You dont like left-overs.

But you don't mind these too much.

0...0...0

"Son, don't you think you ought to head on home? She's probably worried about you."

He's right, so you leave.

0...0...0

"Shhhh", you whisper, and slide the blind fold over her eyes. She doesnt like looking at you and you know it.

You slide a hand over her very pregnant belly and sigh.

Your hand closes over hers and brings her trembling fingers to your arm, where you trail her fingers over the ugly black abnormality etched into your skin. It sends shivers up and down her spine. There are wet spots on the blind fold and you ignore them. They're tears. And what's a man to do with a crying woman?

She struggles and you tell yourself everything will be alright. Afterall, you love her right?

She's thin again, shes been binging and purging.

You skitter fingers over her ribs. Shes beautiful. So beautiful.

"Thats bad for the baby", you whisper, and she sobs.

You dont know what to do.

"Shhhh", you say. What else should you say?

Theres nothing left for her but this.

Her green eyed boy is dead. Her family, her friends, they're gone too.

She's the last of the Order, and she's all yours.

You move to kiss her but she turns away. Her body is pressed close to yours and you can feel every panicked breath with the rise and fall of her breasts.

"We're going to name him Tom", you say to her. Tom, after the man who killed her mother and father. Tom, after the man who brought her to him. Tom. Tom, a name only adding insult to injury.

She moves to hurt you, clenching her fists then moving to strike. You easily catch her wrists, she still can't see with the blindfold in place.

You sigh and kiss her neck.

She wriggles and tries to break free. She's only rubbing her body against yours. You like it.

You coo at her, and she shivers with what you hope isn't disgust.

She continues this for awhile, struggling and crying. You whisper in her ear.

"You can pick the name if its a girl."

She goes quiet, gives up, and you make-believe she is smiling. You don't look up. It is easier to pretend that she loves you than to know that she doesn't.

0...0...0

"These things take time, young man. She'll come around."

0...0...0

Authors Notes-

Yeah, its midnight and im loving it.

Sick sick stuff right thur, im not even sure i wanna post it...

Whatever. Have fun with it kids...

Motherfucker.

**PLEASE REVIEW!**

**-9clouDs**


	2. Chapter 2

"**STOLKHOLM SYNDROME"**

**DISCLAIMER: I DONT OWN IT. I NEVER WILL. SHUT UP.**

**WARNINGS: THERES A REASON ITS RATED "R". DRINKING, BULIMIA AND SOME IMPLIED NON-CON THATS NON-GRAPHIC AT THE END. DONT FORGET ABOUT SUMMA DAT MURDER SCENE GOING ON AT DA BEGINNING...**

"No...no...no...you wouldn't... you..."

Would you? Or maybe a better question would be, could you?

Yeah. Yeah you could.

0...0...0

With the passing of the days came the deterioration of your lord. What to do, what to do? He fell apart piece by piece, his sanity remaining painfully intact, his wit bitingly present. His long spindly fingers tapped irritated rhythms on his throne, a drum beat to his own funeral. You watched as his dissatisfaction grew, his death drawing nearer. He refused to admit it to the very end. He was not mortal, so he could not die. But he could rot. He was a walking corpse. A mind inhabiting a festering body. And finally, he was gone.

0...0...0

You're walking into the bar again, but this time its not for a drink. This time the bartender is absent, this time the glasses are as clean as they'll ever get and are piled (somewhat) neatly on a shelf. This time, you sit at a barstool and wait.

You know he heard you, you made quite a racket with the door as you entered. Its easy to break a muggle doorknob, just unscrew the bolts keeping it to the door. Then its easy as pie to enter. Of course you could have used magic, but where's the fun in that?

"Hey there. You. The bar is closed."

The bartender is thumping down the stairs. His slippers are thin and covered in obnoxious little fuzzies. He is wearing a pair of grease stained grey sweat pants and thin and yellowing t-shirt. He is carrying a baseball bat.

What does he hope to accomplish with that primitive weapon? Is he hoping to be intimidating as he plays the part of Homo Habilus?

You chuckle to yourself.

"Hey, you. I remember you. Didn't you hear me? The bar is closed. Get going."

"Avada Kedavra," you whisper.

Secrets are safe only in the ears of the dead.

0...0...0

Your name is a sputter, a something-caught -in-your-throat, a choking noise that echoes up from the stomach, like the cough of an old woman who has been smoking since she could fit a cigarette between her lips. At least, that's the way **she** says it. Does anyone else matter?

0...0...0

How easy was it to pick the muggle lock and enter the bar? Far too easy. How easy was it to lure the old barman out of his room and down the stairs into the barroom? Far too easy. How easy was it to get him riled up, his white shirt stained with grease jiggling as his stomach tightened with indignation, how easy was it to goad him into swinging that baseball bat? Far too easy.

How easy was it to kill him?

They should've made it harder, thats for damn sure.

0...0...0

"No...no...no..." she moaned as she scrambled back over the edge of the bed. She fell to the floor with a dull thud that made you cringe. She had hit her head. You too scrambled to the edge of the bed but swung your body with an unexpected grace. You kneel next to her on the floor and examine her dilated eyes. Pale goldenish ridges around the cirumference of her irises. Closer in the brown got darker, richer, like mahogany. The eye came to point with a tiny black, cream filled center. Her breath, sweet and sticky against your face brings you back to reality. You had leaned in close to her face.

Maybe...maybe just once...just once...the first time...the last time...

"No..." she whispered.

Who heard her? Not you.

0...0...0

Of course back then you knew it wouldn't only be one time. Because once you get a taste of the good stuff, you never go back, man.

0...0...0

She's far into the third trimester and she looks happier. Her hair is full and thick and braided back at the nape of her neck extending downward towards her hips. Her lips, full and pink, close around a spoonful of mousse, the first bite of anything rich and rosy she's eaten since she became a part of your life. Dinner with her is always a pleasure.

Now her stomach is large and swollen as if she were carrying her sorrows and triumphs in there. You look down at your own stomach. You have your anger burried there. Where are **your** triumphs and sorrows?

Then it hits you with all the wonderful glory of a mid september morning. They're inside her.

0...0...0

"No...no...you can't...you wouldn't...you...you..."

Oh but you would, you disgusting excuse of a human being. You would.

And you did.

0...0...0

You get up from your place at the table and she's immediately alert. Her hands tremble and you marvel at their size. She's a miniature model of perfection, her muscles and veins intertwining like vines and branches. They braid together and lash themselves to her bones and over all of that mess stretches that silk called skin. And somewhere in between all of that is your child. Yours. Yours.

Her spoon clatters on the plate and her smile drifts from her face like a passing cloud. She pushes her chair out and scrambles away from you. You pause. She shouldn't be moving like that so far along with the pregnancy.

0...0...0

"No...no...no...", she whispers as she stares down at the mangled body of her green eyed boy. You are approaching her from behind. She can't take this kind of shock, she's probably seeing spots right now. If you could see through her eyes, you imagine you would see sparkling purple and green flashes of color, like bruises. Eye sores. Literally.

You quickly stun her and catch her as she falls back into your arms.

0...0...0

All of a sudden she groans and throws her head back. The sound of her voice wells up in your organs and every piece of you shudders with the feeling of urgency. She pants and then breathes in once, slowly, her chest expanding like a balloon. Her eyes flutter and she moans again.

And time twists, just once. The universe rearranges itself and you feel it. You feel it. And then...and then...and then...

"Nononononono...no...no...no..."

Oh yes. Oh yes.

You're asphyxiated as her face blushes a pretty, rosy little hue. You come to kneel next to her.

"No...no...nnnn...nnnn...NNNNNNNNNOOOOOO!", she shrieks.

0...0...0

The doctor arrives not a moment too soon. The two of you manage to levitate her to your bed, where she screams as if she were being split in two. You fumbled anxiously with the bottle of Draught of Relaxation the doctor gave you, but it slips from your fingers and you curse violently.

She's on the bed wailing and then she goes quiet. Her eyes roll back into her head and you panic. The doctor shoves you out of the room.

0...0...0

Four hours later and you're twitching nervously on the couch outside the room. You get up and pace, your movements quick and jerky. Not a sound has issued from inside the room since you left, and somehow the silence has you more anxious than the sound of her screams would.

You push bangs from your face impatiently and wonder whether or not the child will have grey eyes or brown. Perhaps it might have green eyes. You might like having a child with green eyes.

0...0...0

Your child had grey eyes. Its skin was grey too.

Stillbirth, the doctor said.

Murder, you thought.

Hermione lay motionless on the bed, eyes shut, skin almost as grey as her child's.

0...0...0

You want to hurt her.

You want her dead.

Its her fault.

Dumb slut.

You raise your arm to strike her, strike her for the first time since you brought her into your home, strike her for her crimes against you and that thing she nestled in between her guts, that precious, precious thing she destroyed with her own self loathing, but you watch her flinch and instead you press your palm to her cheek and she moans, long and slow, in her sleep.

Fascinated you watch as she turns her head to the side, exposing her neck. Your heart beats faster than ever before and you realize, far too late, what is happening.

Nothing.

0...0...0

Surely, surely, she feels differently now, you think. She sits on the window seat, eyes unfocused and looking off into the distance. She's not sad. But she's not happy. She's, she's, she's, gone. Gone. Gone? Where?

Who knows? You dont.

0...0...0

"No", she whispers, barely audible. "No."

It doesnt matter. When had it ever.

You slide your lips onto hers.

"No", she mumbles.

Your hand skims the surface of her belly.

When will you tell her you now rule the wizarding world?

Not now. For now, just now, the last time, you promise yourself, the last time...

0...0...0

Er...

Yeah.

Dont look at me like that.

Its disgusting. Im disgusting.

**-9clouDs**


	3. Chapter 3

"**STOLKHOLM SYNDROME"**

**DISCLAIMER: I DONT OWN IT. I NEVER WILL. SHUT UP.**

**WARNINGS: THERES A REASON ITS RATED "R". EWWWWW ITS FLUFFY, ER, KINDA...**

0...0...0

They say light travels straight lines in all directions from its source. Bullshit. Muggle scientists don't have a clue.

If anyone had ever asked you you'd tell them that light exists and dies at precisely the same moment you open and shut your eyes. Who can tell if the light is on or off when their eyes are closed?

0...0...0

You coax her into a tiny yellow sundress. Your english rose, dancing in the sunshine with you. Just like you had always imagined. Except that she's only with you because she's scared to be inside the house alone. Malfoy Manor doesnt like Mudbloods.

She's sitting in a padded chair sipping at a cup of pink lemonade with ice cubes and a straw. You sit across from her with the paper. She picks at her cucumber sandwich and mumbles something about the sun being too bright and you smile indulgently behind the black printed ink.

The front page advertises the death of so many Order members and you quickly fold the paper so the front is hidden by an advertisement for Madam Milly's Malady Mix.

She stares off into the distance somewhat lethargically, her eyelids drooping low and her facial muscles stretched into a lazy grin.

You blink and her grin is gone.

0...0...0

Blink? Who, you? Never. Never, never, never.

0...0...0

She's fallen asleep in her chair and you lift her quiet body into your arms. You feel like a prince. A rescuer. Her rescuer.

But you're not, are you? Not by any stretch of the imagination.

You're a sick boy, and now that the party is over who will make you forget?

Forget. Forget?

You slip inside the house and rest her gently on the bed. You crawl over on top of her, and its nice that this time shes not trying to wrench herself from your grasp. Your lips hover over hers, parted in slumber. You feel soft air hitting your lips and your eyelids slide low in anticipation. You gently, oh-so-softly, ever-so-lightly press your lips to hers. Its perfection in its purest form.

Her eyes fly open and the moment is over. You hold her arms down before she can push you off her. She moans in despair and you cant bring yourself to look at her. You flip so that you're on your back and she is lying in top of you. You let your eyes close and prevent her from escaping from your grasp by repositioning her against your chest.

Soon she's stopped struggling.

0...0...0

Her voice to you is the sound of sunshine filtering through venetian blinds, a tinkle of crystal in the evening, the sound that the weak light of a kerosene lamp might make had science gifted light waves with the ability to create sound.

The vibrations you feel through her chest as she talks both frightens and excites you. She's alive, she's alive, she's alive. Alive through the patter of her heart throwing itself madly against her ribs, alive through that tiny voice that seeps from her lungs and escapes through her mouth, alive through the frightened breaths that puff from her nose as she stares at the ceiling. Stares at the wall. Stares at anything that isn't you.

0...0...0

Muggle scientist invented something called Stockholm Syndrome to classify those people who fall in love with their captors. You read a book about it.

Your only question is unanswerable. The muggles that would be able to answer it are dead, you made sure of that.

Stockholm Syndrome? Bullshit. Muggle scientists dont have a clue.

0...0...0

**AUTHORS NOTES:**

**ITS FINISHED. MORE FICS LIKE THIS TO BE POSTED AS SOON AS I GET MY FUCKING ACT TOGETHER. AH.**

**-9clouDs**


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